My Guardian Angel
by spezria26
Summary: Lucy "Quinn" is a Life-Guardian Angel, following and integrating herself into a person's life until their planned death, protecting them at all costs. She learns to love them, but still remain somewhat emotionally detached. When a demon threatens Santana Lopez's safety Quinn is assigned to become her guardian angel. What happens when Quinn's detachment falls apart at the seams?
1. Chapter 1

My name is Lucy, no last name, just Lucy. Although I so rarely go by Lucy, choosing to change my alias into far more exciting things. Currently, my name is Nicole Moore. I am a Life Guardian Angel. Life Guardian Angels are assigned to a person far before they're born. I am assigned to a specific person who I'm supposed to protect. I am to lead them down the right path, be a shoulder for them to cry on, and take a bullet for them if absolutely necessary. I watch over them their entire lives until the day they die, and then I leave and go off to guard another person. Right now, I'm protecting an amazing, wonderful woman named Quinn. It sounds weird, why would somebody need protecting when God has already laid out his or her fate? See, the thing that most people don't know is that he hasn't. God lays out two different paths for each person. He constantly leaves options and decisions open and allows the human to make them, they can either take the right path or the wrong path. When somebody cheats on a test or does something so drastic as to murder another human being it's not God's doing, it's what the human chose to do. I am only here to hopefully be a positive influence, and even if the human chooses the wrong thing, to stick by them and be their other option so they can always redeem themselves no matter what they've done.

I think people often get wrapped up in the myth of angels. They think it's so incredible to fly, to meet God, to enter Heaven, to live forever, and to have powers humans can only dream of. It is incredible to do that and have all that, but people often forget that angels are tied to God; they are held to a timeless, honored responsibility to protect both God and his loved creations. I'm not saying I'm not grateful for my existence and feeling his love surround me all the time, I could never leave his side and I could never imagine giving up every single gift that comes with being an angel, but sometimes it's hard. Our entire purpose in life is to live for others, but that doesn't mean we don't have our own feelings and inhibitions.

There was a time when I had considered sacrificing my angel to become a human. I had been young and in love with a beautiful man named James Fabray who had the kindest soul I'd ever seen. He would take the shirt off his back to help a complete stranger and take a bullet for a prostitute working only to spend her money on drugs. I had been ready to shed all the darkness I see every day and finally be free to love him, but I just couldn't give everything up. Being an angel is all I've ever known. What would it be like out there? I'd followed many people's lives over the years, but it's not that simple. Serving God is an honor bestowed to few. I am among the holiest and I have done the right and moral thing my whole life. Giving up my angel would be selfish of me. I would be going against my nature, because I'd know I was doing the wrong thing.

Now I'm here, centuries later, still an angel, still vicariously living through someone else's life. I watch them, age with them, fall in love with them, share inside jokes with them, unshakable love with them, until I finally watch them die because in a cruel twist of fate everybody can die but me. Instead I was chosen to live on, an existence I can never escape. It's the worst thing in the world. I come to know people, marvelous fantastical people that have done things for this world that perhaps even God himself may not be able to do alone, and then I watch them die.

**143**

"It's my time now darling," says Quinn with a shaky breath. "It's time for you to let go." Her husband, Jim, takes a deep, tremulous breath. His hand continues to grip to hers as if his life depended on it, caressing it ever so softly with his thumb. The love he felt for her was conspicuous. You could see it in his deep, expressive eyes. He looked at her with nothing but admiration and sincere, pure warmth and intimacy. To her, she would pass happily on to the next life as long as he was by her side.

Jim didn't respond. His quivering breaths spoke the volumes he couldn't say. At any moment he would crack and break. We all knew that if he spoke now he would cry. We all knew that if he cried she wouldn't be able to take it. He was her rock in this mess of a life. She needed him to stay strong and he forced himself to. He needed somebody to lean on, but refused to burden his wife of fifty-four years with his pain. He loved her too much.

"Your going to be alright mom," says her son, Brian. He's standing on her other side, holding her hand. He's been silent this whole time, understanding this is a personal moment for his parents. "Wherever you end up you'll be treated with a hero's welcome and when the time comes we'll all be there with you, waiting for you to cook us some of your famous pot roast." His eye twinkles with a mischievous sadness.

"I love you Brian, but don't be too eager to join me. Okay?" I notice her left hand tighten around his.

"I promise. I love you mom." He kisses her forehead like she's being blessed.

"I love you too Brian. My only son," she says admiringly, caressing her son's cheek. You better produce me some amazing grandkids with that girlfriend of yours! She's a keeper. I like her."

"You got it mom," he promises. The love between mother and son is clear as day.

"Nicole," she manages to gurgle out of her throat. I quickly jump out of the chair as if I'm only twenty-six, ignoring my façade. I'm masquerading as seventy-five years old and with growing arthritis pains.

"Even in death you look more beautiful than you did all those years ago," I comment in awe. Her hair used to be a stunning chestnut brown and her cheeks lit up with a vibrant red color. Now her hair was a thinning, weary grey and her cheeks were pale, lacking their color. It doesn't matter. Somehow her beauty still remains. It's in her eyes, lined with crows feet symbolizing her old age, that light up perhaps even more luminescence than when she was younger. It's in her movements that are more precise and despite her worn-out limbs still fighting to the end with exuberance and pep. It's in the way that she loves with her whole heart and never gives up, much like an innocent, young child who believes they can still do anything. She is still beautiful.

"Don't you lie to me," she chastises teasingly. Her broken body manages to raise a tsk-ing finger at me.

"They say that once a person is dead, that's when you have to start being all nicey-nice and regretful. Don't think your getting that treatment early! You're not dead yet," I poke at her with a happy smile. In that moment it's just us again. I can pretend she's not about to be willingly unplugged from the machines that are keeping her alive and we're still only thirty years old, just for that moment.

"I will be soon," she says. Her voice is still joking but gloom soon mixes in. Fantasy Over. Reality is back.

The somber sound of the silent hospital washes over me. The beep of her heartbeat and her soft breathing are the only noises. I've been through this so many times. I've been around since the dawn of time. I've been a guardian angel to hundreds of people in this world and I've had to say goodbye to every single one of them. This one's harder. She was more than an assignment, as all of them were, but she was also more than just a friend. She had been my best friend for almost the last hundred years and she had been a truly beautiful soul. If soul mates do truly exist for angels than Quinn would be mine—platonically. They warn us not to get too attached to our "assignments." Every Life Guardian Angel knows that's nearly impossible. When your entrusted to watch over somebody from the beginning of their life to the end, watching them grow over the years and slowly befriending them, a bond is made that cannot be easily broken, if at all.

"I love you Quinn, you know that right?" I ask. My hand latches onto hers. This was always the worst part. There are times when your assignment might die, but you know it's not their time yet so you're supposed to stop it. You know that there's still something you can do to save them and you try your damndest to do so, because that's your job here on earth. Times like this, when you know that they're meant to die and there's nothing you can do about it, these are the times that suck.

"Of course I know that Nicole," she says sincerely. "I love you too. You were my best friend."

Knock! Knock! Knock!

Dr. Stevens patiently enters the room. He walks in with a feel of warmth and comfort for Quinn but I can read his thoughts and his aura. He's a sick human being. Inside he's confident and arrogant. He's determined to get the promotion at the hospital and is working on his bedside manner for it. He can't wait for Quinn to die so he can get on with his line of work. It's sickening. I'm going mad near this vile excuse for a human being. I can't believe God could create something so… heartless. "Is the family ready?" His voice drips of false concern.

I grit my teeth and ignore the perverse doctor for a moment as I focus all of my love and concentration on Quinn. I give her an apprehensive look, asking the silent question. She nods. You'd think that after my years of experience I'd be better at letting people go, accepting God's wishes in peace. No. I continue to hold on when I shouldn't and the pain still follows me everywhere.

"I love you my Quinn," says Jim, gripping her hand like it's the last life preserver left.

"I love you too Jim, more than you'll ever comprehend." She uses all her strength to lift his hand to her mouth, placing a small kiss.

"Goodbye Mom," says Brian. He grips her other hand like it's the end of the world. I grab his free hand to help relieve him of his pain as well as help ease mine. He grips hard.

"I'll be seeing you," I say. We both know each other so well. This is our version of 'I love you.' It doesn't need to be said to know it's there.

You better not anytime soon," she jokes back. _Maybe sooner than you think…_

"Are you ready?" The doctor asks. Both Jim and Quinn nod their heads. Slowly, the doctor begins unplugging the equipment sustaining Quinn's life and the machine measuring her heartbeat begins beeping slower and slower.

Brian's hand grips mine so tightly I think it might be turning purple, but I'm sure I'm doing the same to his. My free hand rests on Quinn's thigh as the pace slows to an almost dull spike. It's only seconds now.

Beep

..Beep

...Beep

... ...Beep

...Beep

...Beep

...Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep

The haunting sounds of the flat line echo against the empty room. Jim's tears finally explode as he mourns the death of his wife, his lover, and his soul mate. Brian's tears are more controlled, dripping slowly down his face. Despite their lesser appearance they mean just as much as his father's.

"Quinn. Oh my Quinn," moans out Jim through his heavy sobs. I go around to the other side of the bed to comfort him. I lay a hand on his back and hug him closely. I've known him for years. I practically introduced him and her.

It's only until Brian gently brushes away a stray tear on my cheek that I realize I'm crying. I haven't cried for somebody's death in a very long time. I haven't cried for anything in a very long time.

Five Years Later:

**Year: 2013**

Heaven. People look forward to heaven. They hope they arrive here. Some anticipate majestic gardens and a place in which to enjoy the rest of their forever in peace. Some expect soccer fields and never ending fun. Some even believe Heaven is simply a state of mind. It is whatever you imagine it to be. Some aren't convinced that it exists at all. If you'd like to know the truth I can tell you exactly what Heaven is. Heaven is nothing. Heaven is a never-ending empty, blank space. Heaven is everything. Heaven is filled with all your wildest imaginations and dreams. Heaven is nothing and everything. It sounds insane but that's the best way to describe the undescribable.

It's been nearly five human years since Quinn's death. I've managed to cope with her death. The peace that Heaven brings is healing. The eternal, empty nothingness I'm surrounded by is everything I need. It's given me the proper time to meditate and come to terms with her death.

In truth, I have visited Quinn more than a couple of times. It's been nice to see her. She's content. Her husband joined her four years after her passing. She couldn't be happier. It helps me to see her, so I know that she ended up happily in a better place. The scars on my heart have been stitched up and faded.

The time off has been nice. I haven't been home in a very long time. Of course, on Earth I can meditate and my mind can visit Heaven, but my physical existence has not been here in a very long time.

"Lucy?"

My eyes open lazily from their meditative state. He truly is an angel. His brown hair is about shoulder length and sweeps down across his face in a way that makes me just want to reach out and run my fingers through it. "Hello Michael," I say fondly. Michael and I have been old friends since the beginning of time. Our paths even crossed a few times as we watched over humanity. When he saved an innocent bystander as well as his assignment from death, Michael's bold contribution to the world earned him a place as one of God's archangels, while I just remained a Life Guardian Angel.

"Hello Lucy," he replies back, admiringly. "Your beauty seems to have grown over these years."

"As has yours Michael," I reply. I haul myself off of the non-existent 'ground' and give him a kiss on the cheek. "It has been too long my good friend."

"Indeed, but I'm afraid that I am not here for pleasure," he says, turning far more serious, as if it he wasn't already intensely serious to begin with.

"Do you carry a message from Him?" I ask, staying as formal as possible. I much prefer staying professional, that's what's nice about Heaven. I am expected to be professional, but when I'm on Earth I have to act in an absolutely atrocious manner, eating hamburgers like a pig and speaking in slang. Hideous.

"There's been a disturbance," says Michael gravely. We both know what it means.

"Satan." It's not a question. It's a statement. Michael nods in agreement with me. "What has happened?"

"A young, foolish girl has performed a séance and summoned a demon," he reports. I audibly gasp and bring my hand up to my mouth. He stays calm, always the strong and fearless messenger. "It turns out that this girl used to… have intercourse with another female named Santana," Michael cringes. God has always accepted gays, he made them that way, he created their fate and has always loved the idea of two people together, no matter the gender, but Michael is still a bit hesitant. He's not a homophobe but he's not exactly supportive of same-sex relationships. I, on the other hand, support them. "Their fate was pre-written to be friends and an experience to remember but never to end up together, but when this young girl performed the séance it completely rewrote their fates. She's asked the demon to force Santana to love her back and we both know there's nothing more sacred than love." There's a warning in his words. He, and every other angel, knows of my story with love. "By changing His plans this girl, Santana, is in danger and must be protected. **He** feels you are ready for this responsibility. Since the devil's work has entered her life she will never be safe from it and must be watched over for the rest of her life. You are to become Santana Lopez's life guardian angel. I know it's a bit of a peculiar case, coming in so late to her life, but then again, you excel in peculiar situations."

"The Romeo and Juliet situation?" I ask. That was a tough time. Juliet's sleeping potion had accidentally woken her up before Romeo arrived. I took a major risk by revealing to he that I was an angel, which of course made her pass out. Thankfully, she awoke quickly after Romeo's demise. She had asked me would she go to heaven and see Romeo. For some reason, tears welded in my eyes. I had known that the two were destined to die in the name of true love, but it still had such an effect on me. I had been watching over the couple, back in the days where life guardian angels didn't integrate themselves into their assignments' lives, and it broke my heart to see such unbridled passion destroyed by fate. I had nodded. Then she stabbed herself in the stomach and joined her fair Romeo.

"You made a daring yet well-planned decision. Where demons and devilry are involved we need a mind like yours," responds Michael.

"Thank you," I respond. "But I am not so sure I can fulfill such a responsible roll. I haven't guarded another human for five years."

Michael lays a tender hand on my shoulder. I can practically feel the power radiating off his body pulse back into mine. "**He** believes that you're ready. Believe in Him." I look at him, his sincere faith in God being enough for him to believe in him, to agree with his decisions without question, to fight for him, to die form him.

"Will everything be taken care of?"

"As always."

"Is there any particular name you would like?"

I've taken up a lot of names in the past, I've become one with each name and identify with all. I've been known as Sam, Nicole, Joy, Emily, Nancy, Lady Bonibelle, and many more names. Sometimes I reuse names but mostly, I like to recreate a new identity for each new life I have. This time is different. This time I'm choosing this for somebody else, for two somebody else's. "Quinn. You can call me Quinn Fabray."

**You should know, that this is starting slow, but by the next chapter you should be meeting the infamous Santana.**

**I also have no religious alignment, I suppose is what it would be called, so therefore what I do and what I say religiously will have no meaning and no intentional harm to anybody that takes anything I do or say personally.  
Finally, this is only the first chapter. This is a teaser; this is to see if anybody is interested. Updating will be sporadic at best, I could update in two days or two months although if I'm motivated enough (follows or reviews) I'll update fairly quickly if the muses lend a hand that day. **

**So what do you think? Are you thrilled or should this story be killed? Let me know in the comments.**


	2. Chapter 2: It's Brittany, Bitch

It feels so weird to be back on Earth, restricted to an actual human body. Since I spend most of my time on Earth, it kind of feels like I've come back home.

Heaven is nice because looks aren't everything there; in fact they're nothing. Everybody is equal. Skin color, eye color, face shape, all of it is obsolete in Heaven. On Earth, it's everything. I can feel the hungry stares of guys, assessing the way I act, the way I walk, but mostly just the way I look. I chose something attractively conservative; a quarter-sleeve, purple shirt with a circular cut, and a pair of form-fitting but comfortable cotton jeans with a pair of purple polka-dotted keds.

I desperately want to meet Santana; I can feel her presence loitering around the school. I just want to wander around until I meet her, but if there's anything I've learned over my years of being a guardian, it's to never rush things. I need to stay believably in character and I can't just follow her around without reason, it'd be way to obvious and she'd probably end up hating me. If, however, I conveniently get placed in all of her classes, which Michael promised me he'd do, and join all the afterschool activities she's in, well then that could just be coincidence and could be completely in character.

"Um, excuse me, do you know where the office is?" I ask, approaching a muscular, blonde boy in a McKinley High football jacket. I need to go get my schedule, it's the quickest way to her.

"Yeah sure, I'll take you, it's right down the hall and around the corner," he replies, his mouth opening wider than I had predicted a human mouth could. "My name is Sam Evans by the way."

"Quinn Fabray," I reply, holding out a hand that he shakes firmly. "Don't you have class?" The words fall out of my mouth with a silky smooth feeling rolling on my tongue. The sound of Quinn's name flies a small storm cloud above my head, but it soon clears. It feels nice, knowing that his time, maybe I'll mean more because I'm honoring her name.

He shrugs nonchalantly, "I'm failing all of them anyways," he replies. He flips his hair out of his eyes and puts on a sad but 'hey what can you do' smile.

"That's no way to talk," I reprimand. "I'm sure you can pass all your classes, you just need to apply yourself a little more and maybe start going to your classes." Sometimes humanity becomes so hopeless over the most idiotic things that they could solve if they only continued to try harder. I suppose that's why I exist though, to encourage them to try harder and to pull them out of their self-deprecating doldrums.

We start walking over to the office, even though he really ought to be headed over to class. "I've got grades good enough to make it onto the football team, that's all that really matters," he says densely. "And my girlfriend Mercedes has been tutoring me and stuff but not a lot of studying really gets done if you know what I mean." He winks and nudges me in the shoulder. That was perhaps more than I needed to know, but what he does with his free time is his own business.

"Perhaps you should get a new tutor," I recommend.

"Can't afford it," he says.

I stop walking for a moment, coming up with a brilliant idea. The general job of an angel is to better humanity after all. "I'll make you a deal." He looks over at me curiously. "If you promise to start going to all your classes on time once you walk me to the office I will tutor you for free."

He stops dead in his tracks. "Seriously?"

"Of course," I promise. "I know you know nothing of my grades which I will happily prove are perfectly adequate for fulfilling such a job if you give me one week to do so, but once that has happened I'd be absolutely thrilled to tutor—" I feel a pair of strong, hairy arms wrap closely around me.

"I trust you, I mean you speak so nicely and all," he replies. "Thank you," he whispers in my ear.

"It's my pleasure," I reply, calmly attempting to lower his arms so we can continue moving. "Now, let's go to the office so I can get my classes and so you can head off to yours." Sam nods.

We arrive in the glass walled room, a small secretary's desk and a couple of bookshelves housed inside with a connecting room that is presumably the principal's office. "Why hello there, sweeties!" The woman is a bit hefty, her thoughts are screaming at me in sadness because her husband just left her for a younger, more attractive woman, but yet she wears the world's happiest smile and greets us with an enthusiastic and reassuring welcome. This is why humanity is so fantastic. Even after horrible heartbreak they are able to put other people's needs above theirs and put the past behind them. It's times like these, small insignificant times with small insignificant smiles, that make me remember that angels and humans aren't really different at all. "What can I do for you?"

"Hi Mrs. Adamson," says Sam courteously. We can both tell he's only saying it to be polite though, his eye is totally enthralled by the bowl of candy beside her.

"Hey Sam, do you want a piece of candy?" She motions towards the small bowl of butterscotch candies and Sam graciously accepts before sticking his hand into the bowl and eagerly popping one into his strangely large mouth.

"Hi," I say. I offer out my hand to her. "My name is Quinn Fabray, I'm the new exchange student."

"Oh of course!" She leans down, leaving Sam the perfect opportunity to sneak a few extra candies into his pocket, and opens a drawer, fingering her way through the files until she found the one marked Quinn Fabray. "Here we are sweetie!" She plops the file on the desk and opens it up, handing me my class schedule, a complimentary notebook, a few transcript papers to show each of the teachers, and a lollipop. I can see the jealousy pop in Sam's eyes.

"Thank you," I say kindly, taking all three of the items, shoving the notebook into my backpack and lollipop into the side pocket. I stare down at my class schedule:

First Period: AP Spanish

Second Period: AP Science

Third Period: Free Period

Fourth Period: Lunch

Fifth Period: Honors Math

Sixth Period: AP English

Seventh Period: Art

Eighth Period: Honors World History

I'm both surprised and happy to see how almost every single one of my classes are Honors or Advanced Placement, clearly Santana has a great mind and noteworthy ambition.

"Do you know where the Spanish room is?" I ask Sam as soon as we leave the office.

"I do, but I'll only tell you if you trade me this butterscotch," he says, pulling out a butterscotch candy from his pocket, "for that lollipop in your backpack." I chuckle. My first friend was going to have all his teeth rot out of his head. I pull out the rainbow colored lollipop and hand it to him. "It's right near my class since I'm supposed to be in English right now and since English and Spanish are supposed to be related somehow. Are you in regular, honors, or AP?"

"AP."

"Awesome! That means you have Mr. Schuester. He's a really awesome teacher, he's like crazy easy and really nice," remarks Sam, sucking happily on his lollipop.

"Cool," I say with contained enthusiasm.

Only a couple of seconds later Sam remarks, "I'm afraid this is where I leave you." I stare into the window of the classroom. I can see everybody in there; Santana Lopez should be in this class. I wonder which one she is. There are three girls of Hispanic descent in there, but just automatically assuming that Santana is Latina is a stereotypical conclusion I have no reason to jump to at the moment.

"Thanks Sam," I say, giving him a small kiss on the cheek to thank him. "Now go off to class!" He scurries off with a stupefied yet ebullient expression on his face.

I walk confidently, but still slightly reserved, into the classroom. Mr. Schuester, or whom I presume to be Mr. Schuester, has a bright and cheerful voice as he tries to explain to his attentive students how to conjugate 'to be' in Spanish. I notice his hair has just a little bit too much hair gel in it and that he'd be better off using less. All heads turn towards me, the distraction in their learning is unappreciated. Most kids in a public school don't care about education, especially in such a small town as Lima, Ohio, but the AP kids are the dedicated ones, the ones that actually care and want to make it out of places like this, places they feel constrain their potential. "Hello, I'm Will Schuester," says the teacher, breaking the silence as he silently puts down his chalk and approaches me with a slightly powdery-white hand sticking out to greet me. "Who are you?"

I clear my throat. I've done this a thousand times before. I have to acct confident enough to attract attention and gain respect from my fellow peers, but not be overly egotistical or self-centered and blusteringly annoying. No matter what century it is, the rules of high school never really change. "Hi, I'm Quinn Fabray," I say.

"Hi Quinn," replies Will, accepting the transfer sheet I hand him. He scans it quickly, wanting to continue on with his lesson, and nods. "It's nice to have you here. Why don't you go and sit over there with Mike Chang?"

I nod my head and walk over to where he points. I set my backpack down on the floor, pull out my complimentary notebook, a pencil, and my Spanish book. A note is quickly passed my way.

_Hi, I'm Mike Chang._

**Hey. I'm Quinn Fabray. Shouldn't you be paying attention to the lesson?**

_He's reviewing. I already know this. Shouldn't you be paying attention?_

** I already know this too.**

I fail to mention that I'm fluent in Spanish, French, Chinese, Latin, German, Italian, and every other language known to man. I can also vaguely understand what a babies whine's and gurgles mean, I know a very crude form of dog, and I communicate very well with horses and tigers.

_Cool. So, tell me about yourself._

**Not much to tell.**

"Mike! Have something you'd like to say in front of the whole class?" Mr. Schue says, interrupting the note passing.

"Lo siento. Yo no quiero ser una interrupción a la clase, sólo quería introducir adecuadamente a mí mismo a Mike sin quitar de la lección. Esto no sucederá de nuevo." (Translation: I'm sorry. I did not mean to be a disruption the class, I just wanted to properly introduce myself to Mike without taking away from the lesson. It will no happen again.) My speaking in Spanish seems to soothe Mr. Schue, especially since I slipped in 'to be,' as I crumple up the note. The rest of the class stares at me. They're slightly impressed that I speak so fluently in Spanish, although they still have the air of superiority around them. However, I can tell that I have just earned respect in this class and am more likely to be accepted into the fold because I will make a great partner, I won't be holding anybody back, and I know the language well.

"Sorry I got you in trouble," Mike mouths back to me when Mr. Schue turns back to the board. I smile, letting him know it's okay. I quickly jot down the notes, knowing full well I do not need them, but I don't need to be on anybody's bad side the first day.

About ten minutes before class is over Mr. Schue starts randomly picking people to start conjugating irregular verbs in Spanish.

"Indicative, future tense, you are, Mike!"

"Serás," he replies back automatically.

"Perfect, Preterit, we are, Jake!"

"Hubimos Sido," says a handsome, tanned boy, taking a few seconds to respond.

"Subjunctive, present, you all are, Santana," he calls out.

**SANTANA!** I've spent a whole Spanish class writing down conjugations and paying close attention to a language I learned one hundred years ago, and I had been waiting to figure out who Santana was. I couldn't just go around asking Mike who she was; I had no explanation for him if he asked why I wanted to know. Finally, after patiently waiting, I'm going to find out who this mysterious Santana Lopez is.

"Seáis." The word comes off her lips like honey. It's beautiful. She's accented the word perfectly and the ways her lips shape to form the word are absolutely perfect. My toes wriggle and my cheeks grow warm. I always get this feeling whenever I see my new assignment for the first time. It's the bond between us forming, growing stronger. She has hair darker than the night sky and her eyes, lined perfectly with kohl and seductive mascara, call out to me. Everything about her makes me like her. Her eyes flutter a little bit, letting everybody's subconscious recognize how she's bored with the lesson, yet I can see rapt attention in her eyes right behind those lids. She's figured out the perfect mix of uncaring and caring. She's discovered the secret recipe for a perfect chocolate-vanilla swirl attitude that makes her classmates gasp in awe at her. She clearly rules over all of them with varying forms of respect, fear, and admiration. I let a gasp escape my mouth, which causes a few heads to turn. She is absolutely impeccable. She's gorgeous, not a flaw I can find, she's smart, she's respected, and the way those lips move…

Mr. Schuester continues questioning everybody but me, knowing I can speak perfectly, but he's still hesitant to put me in the spotlight just yet. I feel the overwhelming urge, even stronger than before, to protect her. Now that I've seen her, know who she is, my instincts kick in. There's a possessive voice whispering in my ear.

"_Mine,"_ it says. It usually appears as soon as I see whomever I'm supposed to protect, but it's never been so… aggressive before. I think on it curiously as the last ten minutes of class fly by.

As the bell rings I quickly grab my things and place them into my backpack, not wanting to miss my window of opportunity to talk to Santana. She's already walking out the door by the time I pack up. I race to catch up with her, I can feel my heart beating a little faster as I challenge myself to talk to her before my small window of opportunity closes.

"Hi, I'm Quinn," I say, striding beside her as we step away from the doorway together.

She looks over at me, rolls her eyes, and makes a sound of disdain that makes me feel small. "You already introduced yourself in the classroom and whatever you want I'm not interested. Bye."

"Sanny!" A cute blonde wearing an identical uniform to Santana's calls out to her from the hallway. Is she holding a stuffed unicorn in her hair and a box of Lucky Charms? She looks sweet. I'm glad Santana is surrounding herself with nice, trustworthy people, it means that I'll have a little bit less to worry about.

Demons are cowards. They aren't easy to spot, but a few of their well-known traits are timorous, conceited, and violent. You might not think that demons would be fearful, but after having their wings stripped and heavenly powers converted into the exact opposite of what their chosen nature would have been, they become more fearful and less likely to put their death on the lines. They may seem brave when they kidnap an innocent young girl or plan 911, yes that was the demon whispering in Osama Bin Laden's ear, but they're really just violent cowards. They prey on the weak, a twisted religion or a drunk, naïve teenager. They allow humans to do the dirty work while they work from behind the scenes or in a secure, easy position that makes their target all-too accessible.

Because of this enhanced cowardly gene in their body, they rarely attack when another human is around their victim, they like to get their target alone so that they know there's absolutely no chance of them getting caught, challenged, or fought. If this nice, blonde girl accompanies Santana a large amount of the time, which I can tell she does since she purposely looks for her after classes and Santana's scowl just turned into a megawatt smile, then their will be few times the demon will strike, even if I can't be around at that exact moment for some reason.

Santana's pace quickens ever so slightly, so it's almost undetectable to anybody else, as she walks towards her. Their pinky fingers link together and I hear words I never thought I'd hear so joyously coming out of her mouth, "Hey Brittany."

Brittany? As in the Brittany who summoned the demon that is now threatening Santana's lustrous future? This is Brittany? This benign looking creature kneeling down to offer some Lucky Charms to another blonde with Down syndrome, is Brittany? What the hell! Somebody's got a lot of explaining to do.


	3. Chapter 3: RIP Cory Monteith

I'm going to post again later today, maybe even just minutes after now, but I figured this really needs it's own chapter shout out.

Yesterday, July 13, two iconic and legendary people died: Cory Monteith and his character Finn Hudson. Whether you liked Finn Hudson or not, you have to admit that he was still an incredible character and that I'm sure Cory was a great guy. I just thought I should say R.I.P to the famous and beloved actor and that in so many ways he was well respected.

Not only did he play noble and good-hearted Finn Hudson, but in real life when he attempted to sober up and even turned himself over into rehab that takes a lot of willpower and respect for yourself, which not many have. It's true; he may have overdosed on pills and committed suicide (nothing is confirmed except for foul play), but the fact he struggled so much with the pills still shows so much character.

It's not like I knew him (duh, but that would be cool), or even kept up with his love life in the real world, but his death is the death of one of TV's most loved characters. I, personally, loved Finn and Rachel and am devastated to find out that they'll never end up endgame. Speaking of, I'm so sorry for Lea Michelle and his family's loss. Lea Michelle and Cory in real life will never get the chance to be endgame either.

I am still in legitimate loss here because I still can't believe this is real. I'm on the Internet, checking to make sure this isn't just some worldwide elaborate prank.

I know I make it sound like he's a martyr, which I'm sure he isn't, but I am still so saddened by his death. Feel free to mourn with me. Rest in peace Cory Monteith. For whatever reason you died, I hope you find whatever you always wanted in life.


	4. Chapter 4: Glee

**In honor of Cory Monteith. I'm sorry you had to die.**

_Previously_

_If this nice, blonde girl accompanies Santana a large amount of the time, which I can tell she does since she purposely looks for her after classes and Santana's scowl just turned into a megawatt smile, then their will be few times the demon will strike, even if I can't be around at that exact moment for some reason._

_ Santana's pace quickens ever so slightly, so it's almost undetectable to anybody else, as she walks towards her. Their pinky fingers link together and I hear words I never thought I'd hear so joyously coming out of her mouth, "Hey Brittany."_

_ Brittany? As in the Brittany who summoned the demon that is now threatening Santana's lustrous future? This is Brittany? This benign looking creature kneeling down to offer some Lucky Charms to another blonde with Down syndrome, is Brittany? What the hell! Somebody's got a lot of explaining to do._

I watch them as they leave. They seem to be good friends. They begin to whisper in each other's ears, secrets and lies and who knows what? Maybe Brittany is performing some kind of demon witchery on her! I need to stop this. I begin to read Brittany's mind, I can't make a scene to stop Brittany for nothing, but it seems all their talking about is her cat Lord Tubbington. For now, I'm afraid I can't do anything. Nothing nefarious appears to be going on. I'll just have to keep an eye out for her and make sure they're never alone together. Here I thought I might have an ally in this young, beautiful blonde, but instead I've found one of my enemies. So I stand, far away, watching as the two giggle down the halls.

I don't understand. I was assigned here because Brittany is making Santana love her. Clearly, they're close friends. Is there another Brittany? What is happening?

"Hey Quinn," says the familiar voice of Sam.

"Hey," I reply absent-mindedly, still staring in bewilderment at Brittany and Santana. I can't help myself. I have to know what in God's name is happening between those two, even if it breaks character. My job, protecting Santana, comes above all, including blowing my own goddamn cover. "What's going on between Brittany and that Santana girl?" I ask, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. It's incredibly hard to sound disinterested in a topic that pulls so incredibly hard on your body it almost hurts.

"Honestly, it's a pretty crazy story," replies Sam. "What's your next class? I'll walk you there too and tell you."

"Science."

"Cool, it's a little out of the way, but whatever," replies Sam. I know I should be telling him not to bother, to go to his own class. As an angel I can feel it in every bone in my body, it's not right potentially making him late to yet another class, but I my guardian instincts kick back in and I just can't bring myself to send him away when he's about to reveal information on Santana.

"Santana and Brittany have always been best friends, ever since the beginning," says Sam, starting the story. "They signed up for the Cheerio's together and they were the only two freshman to make it."

"What are the Cheerio's?" In my many lifetimes I've never heard of any such preposterous thing as signing up for a breakfast cereal.

"Oh, they're the nickname for the school's national winning cheerleaders," replies Sam with a chuckle. "Anyways, they became best friends. Any boy who wants to keep his balls safe and any girl who wants her reputation kept intact doesn't mess with them. Brittany's real nice and all, but Santana's legendary for her smack downs." Wait? What? This is all wrong. Shouldn't Brittany be the one who's legendary for her smack downs and Santana be the nice girl? Is Brittany hiding something, other than the fact that she's in cahoots with a demon and is trying to make her alleged best friend fall in love with her?

"Everybody totally knows they're having sex, but Santana's also got Puck and the entire football team on speed dial. I kind of get the feeling that she's gay, but she says she isn't. Eventually, Santana stopped having sex with Brittany. It's not like they announced it or anything, considering they didn't announce they were even having sex, but you could see it all over Brittany's face. It broke Brittany's heart, but Brittany's really forgiving and I don't think she knows what to do with herself if Santana isn't around. So they're still best friends, still together, but not in the same way and everyone here knows it."

"Oh," I whisper. That was… not at all what I was expecting.

"Brittany's been really down for awhile, but she's been looking surprisingly happier lately. Maybe she's finally found someone new." Then, a feeling of dread replaces my shock at their odd story. She's been looking happier? I think I know why, and it's not a good thing like Sam seems to think so.

"Wow, there's a lot of drama at this school," I say breathlessly. I need to gain Santana's trust soon, or at least make sure to trail her very closely when Brittany is around. She has no idea what kind of danger she's in.

"We're here," says Sam. His voice deepens, "Hasta La Vista, Baby." I can tell he's trying, and failing, to do a dorky Terminator imitation. A small laugh falls from my lips and, for some reason; those four words ease my growing tension over Santana's dangerous situation.

"I'll see you later Sam," I say. "Thanks for walking me to class again.  
As he walks away I swear I hear him mumble, "I wonder what Hasta La Vista means?" I giggle again under my breath before entering the classroom. I can smell a faint whiff Santana's perfume. It smells like vanilla. It's official. I love the smell of vanilla.

**143**

"Quinn, this is my girlfriend Mercedes," says Sam. In front of me stands a tall, beautiful African-American woman. She's on the heavier side, but she reeks of good fashion sense and confidence so she clearly doesn't let it get her down. She stares at Sam with a look of unbridled love and he returns the gaze as they meet in for a soft, short kiss. I can't help but smile. Love can be fleeting and I can tell that even though they're not destined for each other they do genuinely love each other and so I know that it will be a fantastic experience for both of them. I feel a small pull in my gut though; Sam's been so nice to me. I should really tell him they wouldn't last. I quickly push that feeling down. It's not my place to interfere with his choices, that's what's so great about humans, free choice. I've felt this feeling, this feeling of loyalty and wanting to help a friend avoid hurt, a thousand times before. This isn't different than any other feeling I've felt.

"Hello," I say, extending my hand.

She doesn't take the hand, but instead replies, "Woah, hey there sexy mama," she says, outlining my curves with her hands. I blush and Sam laughs.

"So, what do you guys recommend for lunch?" I ask.

"It ain't so bad, just go for the hot food. They've got tots most of the time," replies Mercedes happily clinging to Sam's well-muscled arm.

"Okay then," I say. I quickly grab a tray and politely ask the grumpy, depressed lunch ladies for some food. They less-than-graciously thump it onto my plate.

"I'm really excited for our new Glee club assignment," says Mercedes, glowing with joy, as we all sit down at a circular table to the edge of the cafeteria, not all that far from the trash cans.

"Yeah, Maroon 5 week is definitely going to be epic," replies a brunette Asian, snuggling cozily into Mike.

"What's Glee club?" I ask.

"It's basically where we sing and dance and eventually compete in a competition to see whose show choir is the best," replies Sam.

"Yeah, it's where we met," pitches in Mercedes.

"Do you like music?" Sam asks, suddenly very serious and very interested in my answer.

"Who is this? It's very rude not to introduce all of us to her and her to us," intrudes an astonishingly beautiful brunette with a large nose.

"Oh yeah, sorry, this is guys this is Quinn. Quinn, these are the rest of my buddies from Glee.

"Hi, I'm Rachel Barbra Berry. Autographs will be signed for the future when I become a major Broadway star and appear in the revival of funny girl," she says, shaking my hand and handing me a piece of paper with her picture, neatly autographed with her signature.

"Um… thanks," I say trying to be polite. I quickly open up a binder and carefully insert it in there, getting the feeling she wouldn't like it if I crinkled it.

"This is my boyfriend Finn," she says, pulling on a tall, dopey-looking boy's arm. "That's Tina, Mike, Puck, you already know Sam and Mercedes, Artie, and Kurt."

"Hi, I'm Quinn," I say to all of them. They all manage a smile and a pleasant if annoyed hello.

"Do you like music?" Rachel asks, leaning in close. "Because we need a twelfth member to compete and we've been searching for one. Can you sing, read music, dance, and follow some simple choreography? You don't have to be very good, although that's preferable. You'll never match up to my talent though." She's kind of annoying. The rest of the table stares at me, anxiously awaiting my answer.

"I suppose," I say.

"So would you join the glee club?" Asks Sam anxiously. I look around. I do enjoy singing and I wouldn't mind being in glee club, but I have to keep my eye on Santana. If glee club interferes with me winning her over and protecting her, well then it would be unfair of me to commit to such an activity and then suddenly quit in order to follow Santana home or to some other extracurricular activity she participates in. Since she's not sitting at this table, but at a table littered with other girls in the same WMHS uniform she's wearing, I assume she's not a part of the glee club.

Instead, I choose to reply with, "There are only nine of you here."

"Well, Brittany and Santana are also in glee club, but they prefer to sit with those meathead jocks and the anorexic cheerleaders," replies Rachel. She sounds more mature than any of them. For some reason, although she stays well within the lingo her dialogue is much more fluid and advanced. I suppose it just goes along with her over-the-top, egocentric personality.

"I'll absolutely join," I say with a wide smile. I'll do anything to protect Santana. I glance over at her, staring at how well she fits into that cheerleading uniform. It looks like I'll be joining at least two new after school extra-curriculars: Glee and the 'Cheerios.'

"Cool, well it meets afterschool on Thursday's so you should let your parents know or whatever and we'll see you there today," say the boy identified as Finn.

Sam gives me a chill high-five. "Sweet, we can compete in sectionals this year!"

**143**

The moment I walk into Glee club with Sam and Mercedes I see Santana. I'd seen her in every single one of my classes, all of which were apparently too advanced for Brittany, but now that we were here and not an ounce of GPA was required, Brittany was here too. I could barely contain myself. Every bone in my body screamed to protect Santana and shove Brittany away, but I couldn't. I'd have to have a reason for doing so, and I didn't have one for anybody that was plausible. At the very least, I need to find a way to separate those two. If I didn't, I was going to drive myself insane.

This isn't going to win me any points with Santana, but they need to stop whispering to each other and they really have to stop linking pinkies or I'm going to start punching Brittany in the face. Every muscle in my body screams to pull Brittany away from Santana, find out her motivations, and stop her at all costs right here, right now, even if it requires violence, but I know I can't. It's not how I work; it's not how I've ever worked. It's against my vows to use violence against another being on God's green earth without suitable cause and it's meant to be the last resort only. I have never been particularly pulled to use violence against another without extensive and justifiable cause before, but there's something about Brittany that makes my more angry, unmanageable side come out. "Hi," I say, pushing my arm out and intruding quite rudely on their conversation. I just can't help myself. I'm not normally this… untamed, but something in me just feels closer to Santana, more protective of her than I usually feel to any of my other assignments. I suppose it's because she's the only assignment I've had that consorted with the enemy on a regular basis. "I'm Quinn Fabray, I'm joining glee club."

"Hi, I'm Brittany Pierce," replies the bubbly blonde brightly. "You're really pretty and you're in glee club, I can tell we're going to be friends!" She instantly takes my hand and latches her pinky to mine, almost like a promise. I peruse through her mind within the few seconds she touches me. My blood boils. I can feel hate running through her veins. It's an unnatural amount, the kind of demons have. The odd thing is, I can feel the hate in her, but she doesn't hate anything. She dislikes a few things, but she doesn't seem to hate anything or anyone. It must be from frequently communicating with the demon. I've never felt hate this strong from just being around the demon though…

Whenever I touch somebody I can easily tap into what they're feeling, but this is different. When I touch her I feel something I've never felt before. Hate. It's contagious. I can feel hate coursing through my veins when I think about Brittany. I hate what she's doing to Santana and how she's affecting her life and endangering her safety. I've never hated anyone else before, not even demons. I pity those trapped in hell with moral compasses so broken they can never be fixed. Yet, I find myself hating Brittany. It's like, by touching her, she affects me. She pushes her emotions onto me. This has never happened before. I pull away from her finger. I can't touch her again. "You should join cheerios, you totally have the body for it, you look super athletic."

I clench my jaw and grind my teeth against each other. I may not be able to stand Brittany and what she seems to do to me, but I also know that Santana and Brittany participate in Cheerio's together. No matter how much I dislike it when Brittany touches me it's my responsibility to protect Santana from her. "Yeah, that sounds like fun."

"I don't think so," cuts in Santana. "You're already in every single one of my fucking classes and you're joining glee club." She's noticed I'm in all her classes? That's a good thing; at least she acknowledges my presence. "I won't deny, we need you here so I suppose I can't kick your ass the fuck out of here, but if you join up Cheerio's I'm gonna make your life a living hell, chica. My Mexican third eye is telling me not to trust you because you're definitely about to border onto the line of stalking and your goody-two-shoes act isn't going to work on me because I can tell there's a secret you're hiding and I'm going to find out what. If you join the Cheerio's I will arrest your ass on stalking charges, and my mom's the best lawyer in the state." I dislike her crass use of unholy words, but something about the fire in her, endlessly blazing, draws me in further and makes me almost addicted to her words.

"I don't mean to intrude on your lifestyle choices Santana, but I am interested in joining your cheerleading entourage," I reply. Santana snorts.

"I'll tell Coach that you want to join. I'm sure she'd be interested in having you on the team," says Brittany, happily ignoring Santana's warnings. She's helping me. She's letting me hang out alongside her and Santana. I've never heard of such a thing. "She recently kicked off Mara; she does that once a week to any random cheerio, so she needs a replacement."

I try to say thank you, but I can't seem to get the words out of my mouth. I can't thank such an awful human being, so instead I nod. She doesn't deserve any second chances or other choices. I immediately reprimand myself as soon as I think that awful thought.

"Hey guys," says Will Schuester as he enters the classroom, laying his bag down on a nearby chair. "Quinn, what are you doing here, are you joining?"

"Actually Mr. Schue, I am," I respond kindly. Everybody else starts taking a seat, and I debate where to sit. I decide to sit one row in front of Santana next to Sam and Mercedes.

"That's fantastic Quinn! That means we have enough people to compete in sectionals this year!" The rest of the glee club begins to clap and cheer, all but Santana that is.

"Awesome, okay, so does anybody have a song prepared from the Maroon 5 assignment?"

"Actually, I do Mr. Schue," says Rachel, getting up out of her chair. "This is for my sweetheart Finn." I don't know what she's singing; I have been gone for five years and know nothing of human pop culture. Instead of listening and trying to integrate myself more into the ever-changing earth, I drown her out, focusing my mind completely on what Santana and Brittany are doing. I watch them from the corner of my eye and make sure to keep an ear out for the couple of times they whisper about Rachel's performance.

**143**

That night I followed Santana home, flying a safe distance away so she wouldn't notice me. She brought Brittany with her. It made a streak of red slash across my vision, seeing the two of them together, laughing and singing along to the Top 40 hits on the radio. I could barely hear their conversations because I had to be so far away. There were a few mentions of cheerleading, a hobbit, and protein shakes.

Santana sort of lived in the middle of nowhere. It was clear her parents were well off and thoroughly believed in the public education system; otherwise I'm sure they could pay for a private school. Not too far off there was the small beginning of a forest, so with graphing calculator and notebook in hand, I diligently watched Santana as I went from subject to subject, completing my homework.

At about twenty minutes past midnight I could feel Santana's life signs weaken, as all life signs do when one falls asleep. As soon as she was snoring ever so softly, Brittany turned over on the bed and pushed away an invisible strand of hair from Santana's face, caressing her tanned, and silky-looking skin. I wonder what it feels like to touch her. I felt a current of jealousy as my body vibrated with anger. Brittany places a small kiss on Santana's left temple before wrapping her arm protectively around Santana's waist and snuggling into her. It took every ounce of strength for me not to fly straight through the slightly opened window and push Brittany off of Santana.

**What'd you think? I know, that Brittany storyline may/may not be what you were expecting, but I decided to stay semi-true to the character currently playing on Glee, the nice, innocent best friend of Santana Lopez. But then, how come Brittany is the way she is and yet still consorting with the devil? Guess you're just going to have to keep reading to find out **

**Also, reminder: Anything I say religiously shouldn't be taken offensively if I say anything at all. Honestly, I'm an atheist so everything I say, to me, is bullshit. That comment also shouldn't offend anybody.**

**Are any of you Samcedes fans? Brittana fans? Finchel? **

**Also: I've just spent the last two days watching every episode of, "Orange is the New Black." It was pretty awesome and I'm totally going to endorse it, especially because Laura Prepon is on it and looks like a hot badass, so my suggestion is to go watch this awesomeness.**


	5. Chapter 5: Cheerio's & Plumbing

"Faster ladies! You think this is hard? Try having to share the same air as Shuester without suffocating from the smell of his awful hair spray! Get the hell of your lazy ass's that have been screwed too many times and run! I better see you bleeding by the end of this practice!" My eyes shift nervously as I stand in the presence of one Ms. Sue Sylvester. The things she speaks of are absolutely atrocious. I consider the fact that maybe she's the demon in disguise. She's intimidating, hateful, vindictive, and some of the worst qualities of humanity emanate from her.

"Now, Blondie, I hear you wanted to join my cheerio's squad. Nod your head yes or no to confirm or deny." I nod my head. It's not like I would've been able to say anything else anyways, I was already struck speechless, appalled by her astonishingly unnecessary controlling and restrictive attitude.

"I know Brittany wants you to join, but that girl is a few IQ points short of the pom-pom's she's holding. You've got the looks, but do you have the skills to become one of my esteemed, award winning cheerios?" I nod my head vigorously. I need this. Not only will it give me a proper hour of exercise a day, but it will also make it that much easier to keep track of Santana. "There are about ten million other teen twigs that would murder you for a chance at this. Why should I choose you?"

I observe the fierce, determined look in her eyes, the tightening muscles in her jaw, the smug but unquenchable grimace on her face, the old crow's eye lingering ever so slightly, showing her dissatisfaction and disappointment in the world, the strict but bored stance of her body, and I know exactly what she wants to hear. I know exactly what she's looking for, the perfect prodigy. I've been around for a very long time and over those years I've learned how to read a person based on their body language, facial expressions, and the way they act. It's a talent of mine and it hasn't failed me yet.

She wants what every other human being on planet Earth wants. She wants to be loved. She's smug, caught up in her victories and her stunning reputation and incredibly comfortable life considering she is an educator, but there's emptiness in her heart. She's never been able to admit it, not even to herself, but she wants love anyways she can get it. She's disappointed that through all of life she's experienced so little love when she sees teenagers walking around hallways, experiencing more love and passion and desire than she's ever felt in her life. She's bored with life. She just wants love. That's why she's so competitive, the feeling of winning, the feeling of somebody actually challenging her, makes her feel loved in a wacky sort of way.

"You'll choose me because you need me," I respond. Nobody's ever said this to her before. She turns my way, intrigued by my words, with one eyebrow raised ever so slightly. People always need her, her skills and her reputation and all the popularity that comes with her. She never needs anybody, not as much as they need her at least. I'm going to challenge that. "You cut cheerios every week because you want your well-deserved respect," the cocky grin on her face returns and I can tell that with that well-placed compliment I have her hooked. She wants to know exactly where I'm going with this, "but you also do it out of fear." Her eyes narrow as they fill with an infuriating fire that intimidates most, but not me. I give her a challenge.

"Excuse me?" She responds in a violent, loud outburst that makes a couple of the cheerio's slow down just a little bit before starting back up again, knowing if Coach Sylvester catches them slowing down just a little bit to watch the drama she might cut them or make them run even more laps.

"You're afraid that if you don't cut those girls they'll start disrespecting you, going behind your back, and eventually leaving you. You just want their love because you were deprived of any real love for a very long time. So you intimidate your girls into making you feel loved. You're going to let me join because I am completely and utterly qualified, but above that I can help you. I can help you earn their love and receive more than their love, but everybody's love. I can make you feel loved if you give me the chance. I know what you're thinking, after this girl just rudely disrespected you and promised the near impossible, why in the world should you allow her on your team? You should let me on because I'm going to be a challenge for you, and I'm offering something irresistible, and if there's even a chance what I'm saying is true, you know you can't resist it." I smile. I offer her exactly what she wants to hear, and I she lets me on the team, I make a vow to myself to help her, honestly help her, find love.

"You are an insolent, petty, little blonde idiot who think she has the right to disrespect me. You're mouthy. You're too confident for your own good. And you remind me a lot of me. I'm not letting you on the team because you're right about any of that. In fact, you're dead wrong," I can see it clear as day, even though she's trying her damndest and even shrouding her thoughts rather well from me, everything I said is true, "but I like you. You have moxy and more cojones than most of the boys in this school. I'll see you here Monday, three o'clock sharp. Santana Lopez, the rude, loud one, is your new captain. You'll get your uniform from her. I expect you to know the entire routine by Monday." As she walks away to go yell at the rest of the cheerleaders that they reek of mediocrity I can't help but let a wide smile cross my face. It worked.

I'm not usually so… upfront. Confidence is good, as long as cockiness isn't mistaken for confidence. What I said to her was verging on cocky. In honesty, using her deepest, most hidden desires against her was uncalled for, even if it did finally make her admit the honest truth to herself and honesty is very well-respected in God's kingdom. It was using a rather drastic method and maybe even hurtful to her in the dark corners of her mind, but I just needed to join this squad. The costs of joining didn't matter, I would keep my promise and help her find and earn love from those she desperately wants it from, I just needed to become a cheerio. Not only would it get me on the top of the social hierarchy, which meant instant respect and that it would be easier to use my reputation if it ever so required I use it to protect Santana, but I just needed to join. Brittany is in this group, which is the perfect excuse to talk to her, but because Santana is in here it's just within my instinct to be here. I could, of course, just stand faraway and watch her practice every day or do my homework on the bleachers, but the closer I am to her the better I feel. I can be a much better guardian if I'm around her, there are fewer obstacles in the way, and I can gain her trust and respect more easily, and for some reason, just being around her soothes me. I know I'm supposed to be her protector, and I always will be, but when I'm around her, even though she hates me, for some reason I feel safe with her too. I feel like she's my own guardian.

Thirty-five minutes later, after watching Santana and Brittany with a very close eye, the cheerleaders began to disperse and leave the field. I quickly run to catch up with Brittany and Santana, who are walking back happily together, ahead of everybody else. Santana has already thrown her pom-poms into the arms of a young looking cheerleader who wears a mixed expression of admiration, fear, annoyance, and worship as she easily catches the prop to the extraordinarily complicated routine. Brittany on the other hand appears to carry her own.

"Um, hey," I say. I try to look Santana in the eye, but with one cold, hard look I'm staring down at her incredible legs instead. I'm not usually so intimidated, but there's just something about her that makes me… compliant.

"Hi Quinn," replies Brittany cheerfully, making up for Santana's initial hostility.

"What do you want, Mary in the manger," asks Santana. Her tone is still hostile and it's clear she's really not interested in what I have to say, but is willing to acknowledge my presence with a less bitter attitude than before for Brittany's sake. Their unique bond, the fact that it appears Santana would do anything for her, continues to confuse me. It only further complicates the situation.

"Sue told me to find you because I'm joining the team and I need to get my uniform. I was also kind of hoping that you would show me the routine that I have to know by Monday," I ask hopefully. My eyes flicker up to Santana's face, which is stuck in a state of shock.

Before Santana could even comprehend the fact that I had joined the squad Brittany let out a squeal that if it hadn't been such a clear sign of joy I probably would've tackled her in a protective mechanism for Santana's safety. She bounds towards me and in seconds her skin is touching my skin in a hug and I feel the need to hurl. There's that same feeling of hate again, pulsing through me and contaminating my heart. I hate Satan. I hate Brittany. I hate the way Brittany is all over Santana.

Brittany lets go and I let out a sigh of relief as my normal, peaceful, attitude washes over me once again and drowns out any residual feeling of hate. "I'm so excited! This is going to be really awesome! I bet you're really talented. You have the body for it, doesn't she Santana?"

Brittany looks to Santana and is met with a burning fury. "How the hell did you get onto the squad?" Santana shouts loud enough for the whole school to hear.

"I talked to her and convinced her that I would be a valuable asset to to her team," I reply rationally.

"This is my team," bites Santana. I can smell a mix of perspiration, vanilla deodorant, a natural, sexy musk, and mint from her breath as she stops walking in order to invade my personal space to make a point. "And I don't want you on it. I'm going to go talk to Sue and I hope you've enjoyed your half an hour of being a cheerleader because that is all you're going to get." With a smirk and a sassy flip of her hair she turns back to Brittany, take a gulp of water from the bottle in her left hand, and marches forward towards Sue's office.

**143**

"I can't fucking believe this," moans Santana as she huffs out of Sue's office like an insolent toddler who just had their toy taken away from them. She has a fire in her eyes and her cheeks are red with heat. It's kind of attractive… I mean I could see how both boys and girls want to be with her. She sends a glare exactly at my direction and I feel like I'm burning up inside, and I don't know what from.

"It'll be okay Sanny," says Brittany, coming up from behind Santana and giving her a shoulder massage. I can see Brittany's breath hit Santana's neck and the fire in my body suddenly redirects towards Brittany. A shock appears between the two of them, making Brittany let go. Oh dear God! I need to get my emotions under control. I drop my head and reside to silence, trying to figure out why that just happened.

Santana turns towards me, worn-out yet still trying to seem intimidating, "Come with me and I'll get you a uniform. I'm busy this weekend so I can't teach you the routine."

"I'll do it," says Brittany excitedly. I figured she'd have more reservations about showing me since Santana's been complaining about me this whole time, but it seems Brittany has taken Santana's begrudging agreement to get a uniform as a go-for-it.

"Um… thanks," I say. I may not be able to stand Brittany, but if I have to deal with her at least I could probably get some good information from her.

**143**

"1…2…3…4," says Brittany, moving along effortlessly to the beat. "1…" She takes a step to the left and I mimic all her movements. "2…" She snaps the rest of her body together so she stands straight up like a pole. I follow. "Bad…" Her arms twist outwards. "4…" She twirls around and her feet crisscross at the speed of light. "I'm Bad…" She puts her right hand up in a fist as her arm flexes, "2…" Her left arm mimics the same reaction. "You know it…" She starts stepping backwards to the beat. "4…" She begins on an endless tirade of cartwheels for the next four beats. "1… 2… 3… 4… 1…" She stands back up and steadies herself. "2…" She runs up to the front. "3…" She stops and drops into an instant split. "4…" Her arms fly up in the air, a signal that this is the end of routine. The music ends and she sends a smile my way.

She pulls herself up and offers me a hand up off the floor. It's been awhile since I've done a split and, although I can still do it, it seems my body has lost a bit of its former flexibility. "Great job, Quinn." She grabs two water bottles, taking one for herself and throwing another my direction. "I've never seen anybody pick up any of Sue's routines so quickly, except for Santana and I." Surprisingly, I don't sense any narcissism in Brittany's tone as she talks about an achievable feat. Instead, she just says it as though it's a fact, like it's nothing. Most people in league with the devil share the traits of your typical demon. Brittany doesn't. This assignment is becoming more and more peculiar as time wears on.

"Thank you. The routine is rather complex," I say neutrally as I take a small sip of water.

"Only the best for Coach," states Brittany with a chipper smile. "What did you think Lord Tubbington?"

My attention turns to the large, dark-furred cat who is perched on a large cat throne of pillows, blankets, and cat toys. _"What am I doing here? I was reading about Scientology? Feed me!"_ I stare back at this overweight, unappreciative cat.

"Did you break into my room and start huffing my underwear again?" Brittany scolds. I don't know which one is worse, what the cat said or what Brittany thinks it said.

"Um… So you and Santana are really close?" I ask. I really need to change the subject before Lord Tubbington and Brittany get into an even weirder conversation than… whatever I'm supposed to call what they are doing right now.

"Best friends since day one," Brittany replied proudly. She scoops Lord Tubbington off his throne and begins petting him and playing with his paws, trapping him between her legs on the cold, dance studio floor.

"Oh really?"  
She nods enthusiastically. "People think that she's kind of mean, but they just don't know her. She's really nice and she's always looked out for me and she gives like, the best sweet, lady kisses I've ever had." The last part makes my eyes bulge from my head. I can feel my temperature rise and that voice is back, _"Mine,"_ it claims her. I pause for a second, both out of shock and the fact that I need to calm down, before responding.

"I didn't know you two were together," I respond, trying to keep any negative or jealous thoughts of my angel away from the tone in my voice. It doesn't seem like Brittany's the brightest bulb, but that doesn't mean she's not intuitive enough to pick up on my body language, tone, or other factors.

"We're not," replies Brittany, her voice clearly despondent. "The plumbing is the same so it's just so Santana has a warm body underneath her. She says she can't like, digest he food, if there isn't a warm body underneath her."

"The plumbing?" I question. I know full well the anatomy of humans, I have the same basic structure, plus I was there was God was creating them therefore I am quite well versed in their composition, but what Brittany just said doesn't make sense.

"You know, since neither of us have a lady cock like Kurt it's not like we could ever really be together." She says it with her usual pep, but there's a creeping, underlying sadness in her eyes.

"Right," I say hesitantly. I know I should not encourage the fact that what Brittany just said is completely false and perhaps one of the dumbest and lamest excuses for denying yourself love, one of the truest and most pure things on God's green Earth, but I still have an urge in my gut to correct her and tell her that a relationship between her and Santana could be together, if only just to show her how ignorant of a comment that is. My stomach jolts a little in my stomach as I think of how Brittany and Santana could really be together. I take it back. The pride in proving Brittany wrong, which in itself wouldn't be very polite and highly against my nature because it would be getting pleasure off of somebody's else's pain, would not be worth the possibility of her ever thinking the two of them could really get together.

"Have you ever wished you were different?" Brittany inquires.

My automatic response is of course. One thousand different images flash through my head, all the deaths I've seen and all the things I've had to give up for somebody else, it would be nice to be able to be selfish, just a little bit, for once, but I can't be. Of course I've wished some things were different. Hasn't everybody? Yet, I still can't force the words out of my mouth. It feels like a betrayal to God and, when I match up all the bad things I've seen against all the good I've seen in humanity, their evolution from the common caveman seeking fire to the marvelous entrepreneurs and geniuses living now, I wouldn't change anything about my life. Who else has seen these all these miracles? "No. There's so much I've seen and felt I wish I hadn't, but they helped me grow and, in comparison to all the phenomenal things I've seen, I just couldn't imagine things being different," I reply confidently.

"What does phenomenal mean?"

"Really, really, really good." Brittany nods her head to show that she understands now.

"I kind of wish things I was different sometimes. A lot of times actually," she corrects herself. "I wish that like, the laws of Britney Spears which I live by, were different so that I could be with Santana." She looks off as if she can see it in her head; she's so close to grasping it, but yet so far away. Oddly enough, I can empathize with what she's feeling. James Fabray, the only person I've ever fallen in love with, pops into my head. So far, but so close you can taste them on your lips. It's agonizing.

"But it's all changing soon. I've figured out a way to make things different," exclaims Brittany. My eyebrow arches in curiosity. She's found a way to make things different…? Before I can ask what she means by that a sudden alarm, imagine a fire alarm but ten times louder, blares in my head. My bones tense up, my eyes fill with fear, and I feel paralyzed for a single second before I stand up like I've been electrified by a thousand volts and run off. "I have to go," I call out, already halfway up the stairs from Brittany's basement dance studio.

Santana's in trouble.

**143**

**Oh damn. Sorry about that cliffhanger. I have to get you guys crawling back for more though! Reviews, Follows, Favorites forever and always welcome! Any predictions on what's happening next? Any thoughts on everything Brittany's just said? What do you think, love her or hate her?**

**What do you think of Sue's emotional reveal type thing? I just didn't have any other ideas so I decided that Sue Sylvester, flawless woman of the hour, is actually an awkward human being who simply wants to be loved. I figured I'd whittle her down to the core of what everybody wants. Love. Too weird? I was under major debate with myself.**

**Now, if any of you are still reading this tedious author's note, if at least three of you have listened to/go listen to the song "The Way" by Ariana Grande or "Count on Me" by Mat Kearney (comment it) I promise, that within the next three days, I will update again.**


	6. Chapter 6: I Promise

_Santana!_ My mind shouts out as sirens continuing blaring through my head. I run out of the house and, when I'm a safe distance away, open up my stunning white wings. This is only the second time I've opened them in five years and the one-week I've been living in Lima, Ohio. I haven't broken them in yet. Unfortunately, I can't focus on the amazing feeling pulsing through me that always come when I fly. All of my attention is focused solely on Santana.

_Santana!_ My mind automatically homes in on her position. Like an angel sixth sense I can tune into our unique bond and block out every other human life form in order to find her. I need to find her.

_Santana!_ Where are you? What is happening to you? What's going on? What if I'm too late? Stay calm, Lucy—Quinn. Relax, breathe, and focus. You can't help Santana if you're paralyzing yourself internally. You know that the best tool of an angel is their mind. The mind must be clear in order to be at full working capacity. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Santana, where are you?

I close my eyes in order to visualize. A map of the small town of Lima, Ohio appears in my head and I can feel it growing smaller and smaller as I zoom in on the specific point where Santana is: 59th and Water Street. I open up my eyes and with a small, triumphant smile I start flying at tops speed to Santana's location.

_Santana!_ I can feel myself failing to protect her. I can sense there's something wrong, very wrong. I push myself to go faster. I need to find her. I need to get to her. Every bone in my body is on fire as I try to navigate the airspace above the streets and find my way to the beautiful Latina.

Then, I can hear it. Only three miles away there's a grunt similar to Santana's. There's another and another and I can hear the wind whip against her fist as she tries to punch something… or someone. I fly faster. I need to help her. She's under attack. She needs help. I can hear her scream. Whoever it is got a good hit on her. The sound of blood hitting the ground makes my stomach nauseous. Each drop sounds like a pounding in my ear due to my incredibly heightened senses. There's a sharp shriek and the unmistakable sound of Santana falling to the ground. Another rush of sound akin to that of a 5'2", maybe a little bit taller, human punching Santana attacks my ears.

One more mile until I reach her, approximately twenty-two seconds. A couple more punches are delivered within that time frame and I can hear the sound of nails, presumably Santana's because the sounds I hear would match up easily to that of Santana's hand strength as well as nail length which I have studied acutely because she tends to file her nails a lot, scratching against skin.

Seventeen more seconds. There's a scream, so raw and powerful, I know I'll never be able to forget it. She's coughing now, there's blood coming out of her mouth, I can hear it as it puddles on the ground right next to her face.

Ten more seconds. I visibly shudder as I feel Santana's life signs involuntarily weaken. She's passed out cold.

Eight more seconds. Then, she goes quiet. The only thing I can hear is her shallow breath. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. She seems stable for now. I pray to God that it stays that way. I don't hear her assailant attacking her anymore, not with punches or kicks at least.

Four seconds. My hair is whipping wildly into my face due to my nearly impossible speed, but I don't even hear it. I'm only focused on getting there as fast as possible and listening in on what's happening until I arrive.

Three more seconds. I hear Santana's heartbeat jolt for less than a split second before it calms down and continues at the same semi-rapid pace as before.

Two seconds. I try to clear my mind before facing off Santana's vicious attacker in the next second, but I can't do it. I can feel my control ripping at the seams. When I find the bastard that did this to her, I don't care who it is, I am going to rip them limb from limb. It doesn't even occur to me how out of character that thought is.

One second. I'm coming Santana.

Suddenly, I'm faced with the scene. Flying high in the sky, well over the small, local buildings of Lima, Ohio, I am hovering right over an alleyway between who cares and I am staring directly at Santana and her attacker. Every sight, sound, and feeling bombards me at once in an excruciating barrage.

Santana is lying on the pavement in a way that's almost peaceful, had there not been a puddle of blood mixing with a bit of drool hanging from her mouth and a figure in a black hoodie holding her arm, most likely injecting her with some sort of serum. The sight breaks my heart. Hearing what was happening enraged me, made me want to do unspeakable things for reasons without thoroughly just cause. Seeing what happened to her though, it broke my heart. She lay there, helpless and alone, as this… thing, did who knows what to her. I wanted to fight him, hold her, and dig a hole of guilt for myself all at once. So overcome with emotion, I was following on pure instinct.

"Get your filthy, disgusting hands away from her," I growl. A guttural, animalistic growl escapes my mouth. I barely recognize myself. My protective duty to guard her mixed with a wrathful vengeance to hurt who had done this to her combined in a swirl of control. I swooped down, ready to pin this depraved maniac to the wall, but he was quicker. He pulled out the syringe from her arm, shoved it in his pocket, and ran. The moment I nearly crashed into a wall, I knew he had to be a demon. Only a demon is fast enough to avoid me at peek flight speed.

He starts to run out of the alley. I know that if I follow him I risk too much exposure. On my feet, I'm the exact same speed as any average human being. Only in flight do I have a chance of catching a demon. There are way too many civilians that could look out the window and catch me. The demon may be willing to risk it, but I can't. I'm caught between my urge to hunt him down until he hurts far worse than Santana and the danger of doing so and therefore exposing myself.

I blink my eyes for just a second, allowing me to calm my body. When they blink back open I spare a glance back in Santana's direction and know that I have to stay here, for her. I can't go chasing this lummox down and leave her here. She'd be defenseless and alone. I can't leave her. I fold my wings back as they disappear into a separate dimension. It's too complicated for a human to understand how my wings work.

I kneel down next to Santana, caressing her cheek with my thumb. Even after being beaten so severely, she's so beautiful. The blood splatters against her skin make me cringe, they stick out too much against her tan. Carefully, not wanting to awaken her yet or cause her any more pain, I lift her up and carry her bridal style. I need to take her back to my place to run some tests, find out what that cursed demon did to her and make sure it has no lasting affects. Normally, if I found somebody in this condition I would take him or her to the hospital. However, she could've just had devil's craft injected into her system. Only I can cure that.

Reopening my wings I lift the two of us into the air. She's light, barely weighing anything in my arms. Her breathing has stabilized more to show she's recovering. As I slowly fly her high above in the night sky where we'd be unrecognizable to the naked human eye, I can hear her heartbeat sync with mine. It's a beautiful sound.

**143**

After extensive testing, an hour later I had cleared Santana. It seemed that instead of injecting something into Santana, they instead took something. She had a noticeable amount of blood gone.

She doesn't look good, but I feel that washing her down would be a violation of her space. Instead, I stick to dabbing her face with a wet washcloth and holding a bag of frozen peas against the black eye that's slowly appearing on her face.

"Where… where am I?" She rasps. My eyes don't leave her lips, but my hand removes the bag of peas from her blinking eyes. "And why do I feel like I just got run over by a two ton truck?"

"You're at my house," I respond. "I… found you in an alleyway on my way back from Brittany's house." Her eyebrows furrow skeptically.

"Quinn?" Her eyes crack open for real this time as her dark brown eyes drill stare at me curiously. This is the first time she's looked at me without wanting to destroy me. It's nice.

"Yea," I say.

"Fuck, do you have any Advil… or like, an entire jar of them?" She asks, her hand moving to her temple.

"Um… I think so." I hurry into the bathroom and check the medicine cabinet. I remember going to CVS to grab a few basic medication supplies, but I'm not sure if I bought any Advil. After surfing for a few moments I find the bottle and rush it back to Santana. "Here you go," I spill four pills into her hand. "Do you need some water?"

"Nah," she croaks. She takes each pill one-by-one, swallowing it dry. She closes her eyes and lets herself succumb to the pain for a little while. I offer her back the bag of peas, which she held against her right arm.

"How are you feeling?"

She opens her eyes to send me her usual glare. I guess she's come back to her senses and started hating me again. "How do you think I'm feeling?" She replies sassily. I give myself a mental reprimand. Of course, she probably feels awful. Dumb question!

"I'm sorry," I apologize. I'm sorry that you're feeling so terrible right now. I'm sorry this had to happen to you. I'm sorry I wasn't there to stop him from hurting you. I'm sorry I can't seem to help you now. I'm so, so sorry. I lay my hand against her arm, hoping that the small gesture will comfort her. She shivers. "Are you cold?"

"A little bit," she admits skittishly. It's like she thinks if she shows even a single sign of weakness she'd put herself to shame and lose all credits as a badass. I grab a comfortable blanket from the other side of the room and lay it across her. I frown sadly, noticing how any naked skin was now covered up, except for her face.

"Do you remember what happened?"

"Yeah," she says coolly. "Some asshole jumped me in the alley. I got in a few good hits, but that guy was like a fucking rock. If I had been more prepared, I totally would've kicked their ass." Even after getting her butt handed to her on a plate, she was still cocky. It was kind of hot. Not that I think… I mean… she… it's… I don't think it's hot, but I'm sure other people would. Confidence is sexy.

"I wish I had been there to help," I admit. If I had been following Santana like I should've been, not working on silly cheer moves with Brittany, I could've been.

"Don't sweat it, Q." The nickname rolls effortlessly off her lips. It's the first time she's ever called me Q, a term of endearment. I can't help but let a small smile pull at the corners of my mouth. "You're like a twig anyways. I bet you've never even been in a fight before. You would've ended up as a pile of shit on the ground I would've been stuck trailing your sorry ass home." I laugh. If only she knew just how many fights I'd really been in. I've never lost one in my many, many years.

We sit in silence for a while, neither quite sure what to say. "So… how do I look?"

"Beautiful," I reply automatically.

She lets out a melodious, disbelieving chuckle that makes my insides melt. I can't describe it, but I can't deny that it makes me feel… good. "Don't lie to me," she says through her laugh.

"I don't lie," I say solemnly. I leave out things, like that I'm an angel, but other than that, I really don't lie. I could lie if I wanted to or if I had to, but I've watched humanity and the more they lie the more of a mess they get themselves into.

The laugh falls off her face and is replaced by a deeply serious expression. Her eyes stare back at mine and I can feel it again, that melting inside feeling that makes me want to dive deeper into those deep brown orbs and look away at the same time. The intensity between us grows until it's almost tangible. I can feel it, expanding between us, something big about to come of it. But right before it's about to explode at the seams and rip apart, regardless of the consequences, Santana's gaze changes over to the wall right behind my head.

She tries to laugh it off, moving rigidly against the couch in an awkward fuss. I try to ignore what just happened and laugh for her sake, but I can't. I'm still so caught up in her. Well aware of my still drilling stare, she tries to start up a new conversation. "Um… So, did you see the asshole who did this to me?"

"I wish," I respond quietly, finally looking away in embarrassment. I should've been there. Guilt surges up within my gut. I want to hurl in inadequacy.

"Hey, you couldn't have done anything," Santana says with a shrug. She immediately winces in pain as her body moves, even for the slightest action as a shoulder shrug. Her shoulder was badly wounded, her stomach is black and blue, she's lost a lot of blood, her eye is black and blue, her head would have a thumping bump on it by tomorrow, and her legs were battered in scratches and kicks from a boot trying to bring her down. "Do you think you could get me to a hospital?" She tries to get up, but almost howls in pain when she tries to sit up.

"Absolutely not," I reply automatically. I don't want her to be handled by those clumsy human doctors. "You're in no position to move, I've already helped heal your bruises as much as possible, and it's past midnight. I promise, I'll take you tomorrow. It'll feel a little bit better and it will hurt less to move."

Santana's about to speak out against me, but slumps back down in defeat. "Yeah, I guess your right. Plus, these scars will be hot when they heal," she says with a smirk.

"Nuh-uh," I reprimand. "No scars, I'm personally making sure of it. I won't let anything leave a blemish on your gorgeous skin." She blushes. "You must be starving, you lost a lot of blood. Do you have any specifications food wise, any allergies?"

"Um… brownies," Santana asks hopefully.

"Absolutely not. You just got attacked, beaten, and lost a very large amount of blood. You need to eat something healthy and fulfilling in order to return back to full strength," I scorn.

She lets out a heavy groan as she flips herself to the side. "No. I want to eat something happy that will make my insides feel happy again," she says, her voice muffled by the pillow she's faced herself into.

I sigh. I can't, in good conscience, let her eat candy or junk food. "I don't keep anything unhealthy around anyways," I remark.

She flips around, fast as lightening, cringing a bit from the overactive movement. "What?" She screeches in utter contempt. "Nothing?" I shake my head no. "Candy? Chips? Brownies? Cake? Sugary drinks?" I shake my head for all of them. "You aren't human." I've been around for a long time. I've heard that phrase a multitude of times to describe me in a joking manner. Yet, when Santana says it, a flicker of doubt runs through me from the tip of my toes to the top of my head. What if she knows? What if she finds out?

I play off her words with a simple laugh and get up from the footstool I've pulled by the couch. "Do you like pasta? I've got some in my fridge that I can heat up for you."

"Yes please," she responds enthusiastically.

As I pull out the reasonably sized box of pasta from the hardwood cabinets, I call out to Santana. "This is gong to take a couple of minutes, if you want to turn on the television or grab a book or use whatever utilities available to you, please do so."

"Yeah thanks," responds Santana hesitantly, her voice carrying around the house. I hear the television switch on as she readjusts herself on the couch.

About fifteen minutes later and a clash of exactly twenty-three voices I don't recognize coming from the television, the pasta is finished and I carry over a bowl and fork over to Santana.

"It's immortality my darlings," says a beautiful, young blonde on the screen.

"Here you go," I say, offering the bowl out to the beautiful Latina. Her eyes avert from the screen as if she's remembered exactly where she is and that she's not the one the blonde is talking to.

"Thanks," she says with an absent-minded smile, her eyes flicking back to the screen.

I take a seat on the nearby chair, trying to figure out what's been happening on this show that Santana is so engrossed with. It's hard to focus on what's happening between the blonde and the brunette as they dance to an eerie song when Santana's so close to me. I can hear her heartbeat, a gentle thud, and I can smell her perfume. I'm not sure what it is, but I feel almost drunk off it. I could breathe it in and out forever. She's not shivering anymore now that some warm food is in her system. She must've sensed me staring at her at some point, I don't know how long it's been but the blonde and the brunette are no longer on the screen.

"It's really good," she volunteers. I stare back up at her eyes.

"Thanks."

"I'm feeling better already. When I find that creep that did this to me, I'm gonna go all Lima Heights on their ass." She has a fierce fire in her eyes as she says it, but I can see beyond it. She's afraid. She's nervous that she'll have to see this man again and she knows that if she does she won't be able to beat him up. She's too weak and vulnerable, even at peak strength. Everything she says is just a mask, a front she keeps up in order to try and keep away the predators at night. She's like a domestic dog flashing its teeth. She keeps the hunters away by intimidating them with looks and glares and teeth, when really they're all for show. She's never used them for anything but eating food and she doesn't plan to use them for anything else.

I know if I accuse her of lying right now, or try to get her to say what she's really feeling on the inside, she'll just lash out. She'll keep on growling and foaming at the mouth. So I support her, what else is there to say? At least, maybe she'll start to believe it and gain real confidence. "I fear for anybody that crosses you." If they do, they'll have to deal with me. With a triumphant smirk and a nod of agreement, she turns back to the television.

"What exactly are we watching?" I question.

"Pretty Little Liars."

"Oh. Ok." I have no idea what this is.

Santana seems to understand I have no idea what's going on and have no interest in finding out, so she reaches for the remote and switches it off. "So Quinn..." she starts off uneasily. I can see she wants to make some sort of conversation in order to make me comfortable and, in a sense, repay me for 'saving' her, but she has no idea where to start. "Um… Did you get that Cheerio's routine down with Brittany?"

"Yeah, it was difficult at first, but once I figured out the basic move and sway of the routine, it became much easier to follow and pick up," I respond. I avoid Brittany's name at all costs.

"Good thing," Santana snorts. "I don't know what amazing thing you said to get on the team, but whatever it was, if you don't have the routine down to perfection by Monday, Sue will kick you off."

I nod. "She does seem rather…"

"Outrageously angry, bitter, and overdramatic," suggests Santana. I get the feeling she has a very long list of other demeaning adjectives ready to describe her Coach.

"I was going to say volatile," I suggest. I don't mean to be disrespectful, and I did promise Sue that I would try to help her receive the love she desires. Making fun of her and insulting her behind her back will not help.

Santana snorts, "Yeah, that's a word you could use. Intimidating and vampire are two others." I can't help but giggle. I really do try not to, but as soon as I imagine Sue Sylvester with fangs and a Dracula cape I just can't contain my laughter. This seems to brighten Santana's mood and a smile spreads across her face as well.

"Now, I'm not saying she isn't a good coach, but she is absolutely insane," comments Santana wittily.

"Her methods are a bit heinous," I admit.

"Okay, what's worse: Schue's Spanish or Sue's coaching?" I contemplate for a moment. Being a fluent Spanish speaker I did notice that William is a rather inadequate teacher and his comprehension is honestly at a middle school grade level. He screwed up more words than he actually said properly. Of course, on my first month I don't want to get on his bad side so I didn't say anything. Yet, Sue's tyrannical version of coaching borders on abusive. "I would have to say that although Sue's methods are extreme, she does accomplish the set goal, whereas Mr. Schue doesn't even know what the proper set goal is," I comment.

"Who knows, there may be hope for you yet," Santana clucks in agreement. I think I just said something very redeeming in Santana's eyes.

"This entire school system is just really shitty," she says, beginning on what I can tell will be an escalating rant. "It is so fucking stupid!" I'm about to speak up and remind her that swearing is unnecessary, but she's so caught up in anger, I can see the wheels spinning in her head, that I don't comment. "It's not like anybody learns shit there anyways. And Figgins is a joke, he doesn't do anything to reinforce the anti-bullying policy, he doesn't do anything to try to change the stupid hierarchy that exists, and I would bet my Mercedes Benz he doesn't even care if we learn." From what I've seen over the last week Santana hangs around bullies like Puck. So why would she care about an anti-bullying policy? "He just wants to make sure we're there and accounted for so no truancy officers come and McKinley's average but spotless record remains intact. None of the teachers care, only Mr. Schue really cares about us, which is the only reason I deal with his Spanish class in silence. If any of the other teachers actually cared about how the kids felt, they would fix all this and they'd make it easier for everybody to be themselves." I can see she's been feeling like this for a while now. She's been waiting and waiting to tell somebody who will listen, who will care, what she's noticed. "Their AP classes are the equivalent of a private school's average class. If the teachers and money makers actually gave a fuck about us they'd actually prosecute people that steal phones from lockers and they'd get us food that actually resembled something edible or… I don't know… they'd start an LGBT club." She says the last part, finishing off her rant, as if it's an off-hand, unimportant comment.

I understand now. I was wondering why all of this was so important to her. She clearly does care about her education, but she wouldn't have such strong opinions over her education, I can tell from the way she pays attention, or doesn't, in her classes. This is why all of this is so important to her. She knows, whether or not she admits it to herself that she's gay and she doesn't want to be judged for it. She wants the anti-bullying policy to be reinforced so she can't get physically or emotionally assaulted for it and she wants the hierarchy's destroyed and clubs started so that she won't have to live in fear like this. I realize in that moment that she's never told anybody any of this. How could she? Everybody she hangs out with, aside from the Glee club, want the hierarchy to persevere, they want to bully, and they don't care who they hurt. "You know that I would never judge you, right?" I ask quietly, reassuringly. I lay a hand on her arm. "No matter what, I would never judge you and I'd never let anybody hurt you," I promise.

Suddenly, before I know what has even happened, I'm sitting on the couch and Santana is curled into my lap, crying her eyes out. My hand is stroking her soft, gorgeous hair. My fingers softly scrape against her scalp in a soothing motion as she continues crying. Her breathing is erratic. She's falling apart. She's taking off her mask. She's letting me see the real her, how wounded she is by the attack and everything going on in her life. "It's okay Santana. It's okay. I won't let anything or anyone happen to you ever again."

**Hey guys. Sorry this took so long. In my defense, this is almost 4,500 words, which is very, very long for me and although it's a little rough it was really hard for me to write. I had to try and make Santana all badass, but eventually bring her over to a more vulnerable side. It wasn't the easiest transition and I know that it didn't end up as good as I was hoping, but I'm still going to go with it.**

**Tell me what you thought! Reviews are welcome… Actually, reviews are pretty much cherished by me!**


	7. Chapter 7: Always

**Hey guys! Another chapter is uploaded! This Author's note is just to let you know that I go back to school tomorrow. I don't know what that's going to mean for this story, hopefully nothing, but just as a fair warning.**

At night, rather than sleep, I usually go into a relaxing meditative state that is akin to sleeping. It allows the unconscious part of my mind to commune to heaven, but still leaving my conscious mind open and alert in case something happens to Santana. It's just far too risky to sleep, shutting down both my conscious and unconscious mind. If Santana were in perilous danger or just needed me in some way, and I wasn't there to help her, I'd never be able to forgive myself. It takes a slight toll on my body, not sleeping, but I could live like that for years.

However, when Santana fell asleep crying in my arms, I just… fell asleep with her. I couldn't stop it. I honestly meant to stay up all night, vigilantly guarding her and keeping track of her mood within her dreams. Yet, something about having her so close relaxes me. I just… fell asleep. I didn't even know it was happening. I just slipped straight into the subconscious mind of dreams and memories.

The first thing I felt when I woke up was Santana, wrapped in my arms, and quietly trying to get out of this delicate situation without waking me up. I immediately lift up my arm from around her waist, helping her out. She moves from the 'spooning' position, or at least that's what the generations from this century are calling it. "Good morning Santana," I greet.

"Oh, Quinn! Did I wake you? I'm sorry," flounders Santana, obviously embarrassed. I don't need to touch her skin or read her mind to know what she is thinking. It is clear she had not wanted to wake me for more reasons than just courtesy. Nobody is **this** embarrassed about waking somebody up, tripping over their feet and stumbling with their words with cheeks redder than a tomato. She didn't want to wake me up because of last night, because of how she broken down crying. She is mortified, ashamed even, of her break down last night.

"It's fine," I say in an attempt to soothe her. "Would you like to talk about… anything?"

"Do you um… have a coffee machine?" I look at Santana curiously.

"Yes. Why?"

"I just… I don't really function until I've had a cup of coffee, much less hold a coherent conversation," replies Santana, the comment lacking her usual bite.

"Absolutely, I'll go make us a pot," I say. I must've gotten up too quickly because I immediately felt dizziness set in as my body attempted to catch up with my mind. It's been a long time since I have experienced this feeling… it's different. As I regain my footing and the fog over my mind clears I stand back up and march into the kitchen with a slightly concerned Santana following my movements.

Seven minutes and twenty-two seconds later the coffee had finished brewing and a two mugs of the steaming beverage had been poured. Santana let out a satisfied gasp as the coffee hit her lips. "I thought I made the best coffee in the universe, I take it back," she compliments.

"Thank you," I say gratefully, taking a sip myself. I had always been fond of coffee, not for the stimulating buzz it gave but just because of the warm, delicious feeling that would swish in my mouth and swim into my stomach, warming up my entire body with its bittersweet taste. It was something so bitter, but so sweet: a beautiful paradox. It was only moments after thinking that thought, did Santana pop into my mind, jaded and bitter, yet kind and sweet behind closed doors; a beautiful paradox. "I suppose I've had a bit more time perfecting the art of coffee making."

"I don't know, I came out of the womb drinking this stuff," jokes Santana lightly. A smile floods my face.

"I'm sure you must've been the first baby to ever be born drinking coffee," I quip. The two of us laugh, not a rip-roaring roar, but just a small laugh. It was the kind of laugh that was shared between old friends sharing an old, inside joke.

"I'm the first of many things," says Santana mysteriously, taking another sip of her coffee. "I am probably the first girl who has ever been attacked by some jackass robber and had the girl who must hate her horribly for teasing her, come and save my dumb ass," says Santana in a joking voice, but a much deeper expression behind it. "Which I don't think I've properly thanked her for yet." She puts down the cup of coffee and stares at me. I can feel everything she's feeling in that moment. Not because of some angelic power or from reading her body language, but from her eyes. The legend is true; the eyes are the window to the soul. I can feel her gratitude, sincerity, and kindness rolling off of her in waves. I literally have to catch my breath at such true and powerful emotions. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," I reply back quietly, still overwhelmed by her tidal wave of sentiment. "Are you sure you're okay? Do you want to talk more about what happened?"

"I think I've had enough embarrassment for the next decade. Just a trip to the doctor's and I'll be good as new," replies Santana buoyantly, avoiding her true feelings on the awful situation.

Is she just attempting to avoid the conversation? I understand needing space to deal with things and feel comfortable voicing your feelings about them, but just because she attempts to avoid it doesn't mean it's not going to come back up. I will make sure it comes back up. It's not healthy to leave your feelings bottled up, it often makes you lose something important, whether it be a material, a person, or ones pride. Although I strongly believe that Santana should talk about her feelings now rather than keep them up, feeding them with doubt and fear and insecurity, I will let her be for now. Perhaps the shock has finally faded and the reality of the situation has set it. "If you ever need to talk, you know I'm here, right? Always."

"Thank you," says Santana with a small and somewhat shocked smile. "I… You were really great. I don't know why, but I feel like I can open up to you. I just feel… safe with you."

"I will always keep you safe," I say seriously. It's much more than a couple of words in a sentence made to comfort her. It is a promise. It is an oath. I can see it in the way her jaw opens and her eyes widen, it's been far too long since somebody has bothered to make sure she's safe.

Santana doesn't respond for forty-four seconds. She's just stunned, processing everything I said and everything that has happened. When she finally musters up words, I'm equally surprised by what I hear. "I have a reputation to keep up." I can feel her walls rising back up. She's afraid of my commitment. She's not sure if she trusts me to hold up my end of the bargain when people have promised her the same thing, and failed her before. "You can't tell anyone what happened here, okay?"

"Okay," I say, promising my silence. "I won't tell a soul, as long as you remember that if life gets hard, you can always come to me. My door is always open and I will always be here for you."

"I…. yeah," says Santana. Her right hand moves nervously to her left arm, rubbing it anxiously. She's guilty that she's asking me to do this for her, but she's not ready to let go of her reputation. I don't mind. When she's ready, I'll be waiting for her, and now she knows it. That's all that matters. "So, about the doctor's office, think you could give me a lift? You kind of rescued me so I don't have my wheels and I don't want Brittany to see me like this."

I don't want Brittany to see her like this either. I don't want Brittany to see her at all, but for now I suppose it is unavoidable. "Like I said, I'm always here for you, even if it is just a car ride," I say with a cheeky grin, lightening the mood. Santana cracks a small, if slightly forced smile.

"What do you drive?" Santana questions.

"1974 Mustang," I say fondly. This baby has been with me ever since Quinn. I had some good memories in it with her. I used to have a 1917 Chevrolet, but it soon became a bit too obvious.

Santana snorts. "Are you kidding me?"

"What? What's wrong with my car?" I pout, sounding like an insolent child.

"What's with the old car nerd buff? I can understand the value of something old, some old cars are still sweet rides, but like the 1974 Mustang is the shitiest piece of rubble in the history of cars. Whoever made it should be arrested for making such a crap car," argues Santana.

"Firstly, he's dead so he can't be arrested," I retort. "Secondly, I keep the car around for the memories, okay? It has sentimental value."

"Whatever. Sentiment is a waste of time. Make new memories, don't live in the past." I chuckle at the irony of her words. "When you want to upgrade to something from this century, let me know. I've got the perfect ride for you, and I swear it'll be worth every penny," I can see Santana vividly immersing herself in our conversation. I never knew she was such a car person.

"Oh? And what is this mysterious, perfect ride for me?"

Santana smiles that wicked smile that has boys harden and girls' underwear dampening. "A Harley Davidson," she says, articulating every syllable.

"Absolutely not! Those are death machines," I argue immediately. "Motorcycles are stupid vehicles made by some idiot and driven by imbeciles. Do you know how many people die on a motorcycle a year? I will not become one of those dead statistics!"

"Whatever Ms. Boring. I'll have you know that my Harley is perfect. Best ride in the world! You just need the right driver behind the wheel is all," she says with a cocky smile and a wink.

"You, Santana Lopez, better get you butt in the car! We will discuss you driving this… death contraption on our way to the doctor's!"

Santana lets out a tinkering laugh that echoes around my garage, sending shivers down my spine. "Indeed we will. I'll have you driving one by next month!"

"I don't think so!"

"We'll see…"

**143**

"I'm just saying, your parents live in New York at least half the time," continues Santana as she steps out of the car. "You're alone in a house, why not throw a small house party?"

"Because I think our definitions of house party differ immensely," I say curtly. "If you wish to continue this conversation, I suggest we do not do so in front of your parents who I assume would find the words 'house party' very suspicious." With a sullen expression, Santana's argument falls through as she fishes her house key out of her pocket and opens the door.

"Santana?" Calls out a worried male voice.

"Yah," she replies back nonchalantly, throwing her keys in a nearby turtle dish by the door. I can hear the trampling of six feet tromping down the stairs as if they were running from the devil himself. Santana appears not to notice the ruckus her return home has caused, or she simply chooses to ignore it. She carefully takes off her boots and places them by the other shoes lined up in a row.

"Santana!" I hear a woman's voice call out as she comes into view. "Mi bebé!" The look of pure love lights up the room as she rushes down the stairs in a very haphazard way, taking her daughter into her arms. "¿Estás bien?" Are you okay?

Another person enters, male. He's most definitely her father, you can see the resemblance in the strong eyes and the cheekbones. "¿Qué ha pasado?" What happened? Santana tries to get a word in edgewise to answer all her parents questions and defend her case, but her parents are speaking so fast, Santana can't speak.

Santana's mother pitches in again, "¿Está herido?" Are you hurt? "Estás herido!" You're hurt! "¿Por qué tiene un ojo negro?" Why do you have a black eye?

Finally, I hear the last pair of footsteps descend down the stairs, a cop with a notepad, a raised eyebrow, and a slightly perturbed look at being disturbed this morning.

"¿Qué pasó con usted!" What happened to you? The way her fathers says it sounds highly accusatory. I suppose that their emotions have gone from frazzled, thankful, to pissed off.

"No vuelvas a hacer eso a nosotros otra vez!" Don't you ever do that to us again! "Te quiero Santana." I love you Santana. Her parents eyes begin to water as they pull her in for another fierce hug.

It is another minute later when the reunited family finally stops hugging that the father notices me. "Who is this?"

"Dad, this is Quinn Fabray," says Santana, moving out of the way to introduce me with a wave of her hand. "I got jumped last night by some coward," I notice the look of absolute horror in her mothers eyes, "and Quinn was the one who picked me up and brought me back to her place to recuperate.

"My baby got attacked!" Mrs. Lopez breaks down in a whole new wave of tears. She wraps her arms protectively around Santana again as if to say, 'I will never let you go again.'

"Thank you Quinn," says her father gratefully, gently laying a hand on his daughter's right arm at an attempt of comforting. Now that her parents have calmed down a bit, their personalities are settling back in. I can see it in the hesitant way her father moves to comfort her, not wrapping an arm around her, just placing a hand on her arm. He clearly loves her, he'd be lost without her, but he rarely shows it. Unless it's some special circumstance, he's far from a good, caring, and attentive parent. He's rarely around and he rarely shows Santana any attention. He's the one who promised he'd protect her, always be there for her, and let her down. I can see it from the guilt emanating off his body.

The police officer that I'd nearly forgotten was there coughs, interrupting the emotional family moment. "Mr. and Mrs. Lopez, I need to talk to your daughter about this attacker of hers."

"Absolutely, but first, we are getting her to the doctor's," says her mother with fierce protection.

"Ma'am, I highly advise against that, any details in her mind could be fading as we speak."

"Officer, my daughter was just attacked. It is your job to care for the well being of this city. We need to go care for hers," says her father, standing up for the first time in a long time. Santana's eyes sparkle in ways that remind me of a child watching their hero defeat the villain.

"Of course, I'm sorry sir," replies the officer, realizing his mistake with shame.

"Ms. Fabray, in the mean time, would you accompany me down to the station so I can get your statement?"

"Absolutely officer."

I know what happened to Santana. It was no coincidence that she is being targeted by a demon and she magically gets jumped only weeks later. It's clear that whoever-whatever-attacked her is far beyond the capabilities of the police. I know that this attack has just increased the stakes exponentially. I have my work cut out for me due to this awful event. Yet, as I watch Santana walk out the door with a beaming smile on her face, I can't help but think maybe there's a silver lining to all of this. Santana's hero may just be returning.

**And complete! I know that you guys are really interested in the paradox that is Brittany and how she fits into this story; I promise you that even though she hasn't been present in the last two chapters she will be back. Maybe not immediately, but she will because she is a major player in this story.**

**Also, I know what I said about her father is a bit of a rushed min-storyline, sorry about that. I don't particularly plan on elaborating about their relationship except maybe dropping one or two lines in the future about how he's changing and doing something nice. It was kind of a spur of the moment decision to make him the way he is.**


	8. Chapter 8: Aftermath

It has been a week since Santana's attack. I've been pouring over my books, trying to find out the purpose of stealing her blood. In my libraries alone I have the history of humankind all the way up to 38,000 B.C.E. I could have more, but I'm afraid my house is a bit too small for that. I'd need an entire planet to fill up everything that's ever happened since the beginning of time itself.

I've gone through, starting with the earliest date in my archives, memorizing the pages and staying up all night reading the words of the ancient, most sacred scribe angels. I have probably been through about 1/20th of my book collection, which is an inhuman rate. Yet, I've come up with nothing.

There are plenty of uses in which the victim's blood is required, but none of them coincide with Brittany's reasoning, even at its most frazzled and illogical state. Of course, I haven't ruled anything involving blood out, just in case. I have every curse, hex, spell, and recipe involving blood (sometimes humans had to be a bit cannibalistic back in the day) written down on my computer with avid detail. There are over 3,00—which is a lot less then I was expecting to be perfectly honest. None of them seem to make sense in comparison to the all-too-precarious situation. My angel would automatically know what is plaguing Santana as soon as I crossed it. Although, I'll admit, my angel has been a bit distracted of late.

Ever since the attack Brittany has grown fiercer, more protective, of Santana. Brittany waits outside of all Santana's classes and always keeps an arm around her waist as if to say, 'she is mine. Don't you dare touch her.' It's a bit distracting when your enemy is as close to the person you're trying to protect—if not closer—than you are.

Nothing about this situation is making a lick of sense. I know Brittany had something to do with the attack, there's no way this could be a coincidence. Yet, she appears to care for Santana so deeply she'd never order a direct attack on her friend and not-so-secret love. I just don't understand any of this. It's not the hardest situation I've ever been in. Dealing with Van Gogh as the invisible demons plaguing him both inspired him to greatness yet led him to his downfall, now they were really pesky to fight off. Unfortunately, they had been a pestilence, once they came they didn't leave, or at least their effects never washed away. They eventually drove Vincent Van Gogh to madness; they even made him cut off his ear!

Back then, at least I knew the enemy. Now all the lines are crossed and blurred. One second Brittany is planning something nefarious, the next she's protecting Santana, and then suddenly she's a ditzy blonde with a rather privileged cat. I know that she's supposed to be the enemy, but at times it can just be so difficult to tell. Something about her, about all of this, doesn't feel right. Something doesn't make sense, but I don't know what!

I throw the book down on the floor, succumbing to my frustration and fury. A loud crack echoes around the room as it hits the ground and a little bit more of the ancient material breaks off. Immediately, I realize my mistake. I close my eyes and focus on all the good, blocking out the bad. Memories of happiness flood through me, causing my entire body to relax, my temper to cool, and my muscles to loosen. I remember something I've learned from humanity after many, many years of living among them and observing them. Those who persevere are rewarded for their tireless efforts. I cannot despair now.

I slowly pick up the book and place it back on the table; opening it back up to the page I was on before. "Slow and steady wins the race," I tell myself, repeating the line from the famous fable of the rabbit and the hare. By the end of the night I had gotten no farther than before, I had only discovered five more horrible things involving the use of blood.

**143**

"So Mercedes and I went out on a date the other night," Sam said as he leaned against the locker next to mine.

"Oh?"

"It was awesome. I took her out to breakstix and well… you know how my money situation is. She was so cool about it. I had offered to pay for everything, but she insisted because she knows I need the money for my family. She called me chivalrous! I don't know what that means, but I totally got some hot make-out time afterwards!"

I make a mental note to mention what the word chivalrous means for our tutoring session later. "That's really great Sam! I'm afraid I didn't have nearly as much luck as you yesterday," I reply dejectedly.

"Strike out in the dating zone?" Sam replies in a tone that suggests he's had that particular experience.

"No, it was more of a…" I can smell Santana's intoxicating perfume wafting through the hallways. My protective instincts kick in and I can feel myself focusing in solely on her.

"Quinn? Earth to Quinn?" I blink a couple of times before returning back to my conversation with Sam. Where was I?

"Sorry, I just… I pulled an all-nighter last night, it must be catching up to me," I reply. Technically, I did pull an all-nighter last night.

"It's all the A.P classes," says Sam. "You have to stop pushing yourself so bad. It can't be healthy."

"No, pushing myself is good. I should always be striving to be my best self," I preach.

Suddenly, Santana turns the corner into the hallway. I can feel her presence. I turn around and see her, a big shiner on her face. There were at least six cheerleaders surrounding her, doting on her, and carrying her stuff. The only one who wasn't carrying anything of Santana's was Brittany whose arm was wrapped protectively around Santana's waist. I could feel my angel's inner fury rise.

"_Get your hands off of her!" It said._

"Santana, what happened to you?" Sugar sweeps in on Santana's other side with a gasp and a questioning look in her eye.

"I got jumped in an alleyway. Douche tried to like, steal my wallet or some shit, but I kicked his ass," Santana lies flippantly. "I wouldn't be surprised if he was already being sent off to jail as we speak."

"Oh my God Santana, that's like so badass," responds an in-awe Sugar.

"What did you expect? It's me," says Santana. She smirks and continues to saunter down the hall with confidence. Am I the only one who notices her slight-limp?

My eye catches her and all I feel is cold. This is how the social hierarchy here works. Santana has to pretend that she's undefeatable. She can't go around saying she got attacked and lost. It would ruin her. She can't mention how I came and helped her, and she can't talk about our night together. I understand it, I really do, but I wish she wouldn't. She shouldn't lie, about anything, including me.

There's another pair of eyes that catch my eye in the hallways. Brittany. Her cold, piercing, and jealous anger darkening the glare directed towards me, she clearly knew the truth and was jealous that I had been her savior that night. I couldn't help but feel a small bit of satisfaction. I had beaten Brittany this time around.

The rest of the day Brittany was by Santana's side, making it impossible for us to speak, not that it seemed like Santana planned to anyways. At Glee I tried to approach her, but I was immediately shut down when Santana saw me. She purposely got up and sang a song about, 'giving someone hell,' probably her attacker, just to avoid speaking to me. Instead I had a somewhat-pleasant conversation with an overly happy Rachel. Finn must've done something romantic today to make her this happy.

**AN: It's not much. It's really just a filler chapter. I'm very sorry about this. It is rather boring. I promise the next chapter will definitely be more interesting. There will be more reveals about what the hell is happening to Santana and hopefully a very sweet Quinntana moment.**


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